The Era
by apollonialust
Summary: Olivia and Fitz transported through different decades. 1950-2014 One-shots
1. The Unfaithful Housewife

**Smut isn't exactly my greatest technique so bear with me this one shot is more emotion then sex. ENJOY!**

The Unfaithful Housewife

She was going to end it she had professed to herself. It was almost like a prayer a sinful chant that needed to be reiterated every five minutes, but what she couldn't comprehend was the sheer unhinged disregard for her marriage vows she had stabbed into oblivion. The word _slut_ sat at the tip of her tongue waiting to curl it's fangs into her psyche. Olivia Pope was definitely a saint.

She with skilled careful fingers had twirled the perfect dapple of frosting on dozens of cupcakes for her daughter's class bake sale, she had championed a fundraiser for the girl's soccer team and she even played hostesses serving cucumber salads to the wives of her Mulberry-esque neighborhood. The doting mother she portrayed, but inside she was caged with wanton need. A lack of orgasms had been the cusp of this torrid affair. But it was more to it than that, to pine it as a simple tawdry dalliance would cheapened the devastating emotions that dripped from her heart. She had fallen in love for the first time and it frighten every vein in her body. Every touch he gave her was an indelible smudge to her marriage.

In the beginning he had been sweet, her lover. It was the blistering kisses that lingered, that made her weep into her pillow each time her husband tried to touch her. Edison's touch although familiar now made her wince with an undeniable prejudice. He was her husband and she couldn't stomach his clumsy fingertips and awkward thrust. Sex had never been great between the two but she had managed to find her own pleasure in the quiet stellar of their closet. It was in those needy minutes with her buzzing vibrator in her hand that she felt such shame. She had become the cliché, the lonely housewife who masturbates alongside her envious row of spectacular heels, espadrilles, loafers, ballet flats and sandals.

She shied away from mirrors, mirrors taunted her shared her lustful ridden secret with an ambivalent gaze. The laser like gleam of her wedding ring startled her each time so she had decided that mirrors were out to get her. Yet she stood before the mirror today in a sheer wine colored bow neck blouse and wheat A- line skirt that swayed just below her mid thigh. Lace gathers at the soft peak of her breast and she wonders who is she wearing this for? Definitely not her husband. The sleeves billow out at the elbow and taper at the wrist. Pleats curved her ribcage and accentuate the lush flesh of her body.

A nervous finger runs through her hair that's curled at the end she's bundled it into a slick ponytail leaving a sultry swoop to cover her eye. She decides makeup is too much of a hassle so she paints her lip in a dangerous shade of red. A shimmering burgundy that makes her look like a woman plotting revenge instead of an escape. Does she know what she's doing? Red is for whores and prostitutes.

There is no guilt just conviction.

There was her daughter Isadora curious and shy. Her wondrous pout and engaging eyes made Olivia simply putty in her five year old hands. She couldn't resist her sticky kisses and endless chatter about Princess Tiana, Frozen and trips to the library. What would her daughter think of her?

And then her husband Edison whose paternalism was endearing the first year of their marriage but now achingly stifling. The condescension that cakes his voice and the obvious eye rolls he's patented specifically for her whenever she opined a thought. How could she have ever thought this was love? It was comfort surely and her parents adored him because he could be affectively charming, but underneath the tailored suits was a man she hardly knew or maybe she knew exactly who he was but just casted a blind eye.

There was something wrong with her marriage she could willfully admit, but what was this persistence to salvage her marriage. Edison lying chaste kisses on her temple each morning before whistling out of their door way and into a world she hardly ever ventured out of. His world of advertisement called him to be powerful in a world that could render him powerless just by the shade of his dark brown skin. She bathing and clothing Isadora with a mother's gentle touch before shuttling her off to school. Grabbing groceries from Target getting Edison's suits from the cleaners she had thought life offered more. It was the routine that tired her, her stunted dreams that seemed to taunt her each time a college friend of hers squealed with delight at making partner, getting a promotion or opening their own firm. She could boast about her being president of the P.T.A or the lengths she went to ensure that Isadora got into the best school, but what did it mean if every waking breath felt like a slow death.

Her B.F.A in Interior Design lay in a box in the dusty space of their attic.

It seemed they had perfected a performance of a normal suburban couple.

If Edison was powerless she was boxed in, tightly shut and sealed.

/

As soon as the passengers descend for the train platform she glances around meekly her bottom lip pulled between her teeth. She notices a mother kissing her daughter's wrist as the little girl quietly cried into the mother's bosom, Olivia's heart ripped literally lifted for the seam. A staggered old man whistled a whimsy tune each shaky step a breath of fresh air. Teenagers idly looking for caution mischief. She's peers out into the buzzing traffic of the throngs of passengers and she sees him. Her heart beats a simple chant of love. It's a feeling she had never had before. The typical butterflies scraped her ribcage making her a nervous wreck. She couldn't possibly do this today.

Olivia stops timid and exhilarated, hundreds flow past and yet she can't possibly move because this incredibly gentle man has her heart staked in his palm. What a terrible way to feel. The absolute weight of your heart not owned by your husband, but a lover with soulful blue eyes.

She needs him. It suddenly grips her.

Olivia tries shooing the epic wave of colossal emotion aside, she wants to think of her daughter rocking her little body to sleep, with selfish intent she needs to allow herself to be the woman she's afraid of.

The woman who would fall in love simply because love had chosen her. She didn't ask for love it sank its fluttering fangs in her heart and tugged. What Olivia had been desperate for was a good fuck. A rippling of orgasms that left her fatigued for a week, love wounds on her neck, she wanted to be spanked bent over and fucked mercilessly.

Her poor husband.

Fuck her husband.

Fuck him for not fucking her right.

Fuck him for not knowing how to love her.

Another train whizzes by and she's struck by the beauty of him.

A calm smile paints his face a flash of his roving fingers seeking out her perk breast comes through her mind. She crosses her legs before her, a hint of feverish blush tinting her cheeks. How could she be aroused at the sight of him? She immediately chastises herself at the erotic picture she has tainted in her thoughts. She is not this person, but she can't help but smile at the rugged curl of his hair and the slight scruff that marks his face. He's adorable in this menacing way. He could whisper a sonnet full of love in her ear and then dip his two wonderful fingers deep inside her with his right hand delicately around her neck and not bat a possible eyelash.

She takes timid steps to meet him in the midst of the ongoing traffic. Her eyes wander above him and she can't look into his stony blue eyes that seems to frighten an enchant her.

Her stomach rolls as he approaches shifting on the balls of her feet she pinches her fingertips into her palms. She will explode if he doesn't touch her soon.

Crisp footsteps meet hers and she's standing before him anxious as ever. She needs to find something to do with her hands she decides to lay them at her sides, but that makes her feel plain. So she stuffs them in her brown trench coat pocket she imagines she looks like a rag doll thrown aimlessly through the air. Looking up his eyes seemed to sear her flesh.

A lopsided grin is what he offers.

"Hi."

"Hi." She says in a broken whisper a sheen of tears threatening to fall from her eyes. She seems to focus on the neckline of his indigo t-shirt. This could all go wrong. A patronized husband with a revolver and brain matter splattered everywhere, and she would be the culprit. The whoring wife who couldn't keep her legs cost. The risk is worthy.

He studies her a light touch of his thumb to her cheek and she shivers.

And he touches her like she's porcelain because she is. Today she doesn't feel like scum.

"What's wrong Livvie?" He smiles ruefully tugging her by her waist with a patient delicacy.

She can't look at him. Her voice crumbles under the plight of her conviction "I knew exactly what I was going to say the moment I saw you, but you're here Fitz and God I can't think straight."

She pushes him away a little but never fully leaving his embrace. Raising her head to peer up at him she knows that all pretense is null in void. What's this thing that has captured her heart? Why can't she just end it and run away? The impossible truth is Olivia would like to be devoured by love. To have her heart gobbled in a pit of flames by her lover's eyes, she's bashful of these thoughts, because to her these are not thoughts of a thirty year old woman, but a hopeless thirteen year old girl scribbling her crushes name in her diary.

"I missed you." She whispers softly to the ridge of his ear. Suddenly the urge to cry threatens to spill forth; she bites down on her lip harder.

His hands frame her face and he's looking at her like she's the only woman in the world. She turns away simply frenzied at his unrelenting gaze. She shuts her eyes tight as he lifts her off her feet and hugs are closely to his body.

"It's been a week Livvie. I'm disappointed in you." His tongue traces the pucker of her lip.

"I'm sorry."

"Let me take you home lover."

/

The wind bit into them as they casually walked hand in hand out of the train station and into the combusted street. She leaned into him thinking how good it felt to walk the fragile concrete with her lover's hand in hers. _Her lover_. This sweet tender man had taken her heart and ran away with it. She let him without a second thought. It was very easy to fall in love with him; the falling in love part didn't keep her up at night surprisingly. It was the wanting. The slow ache for him when she was home helping Isadora with her homework and looking at her husband's empty chair at their kitchen table.

She couldn't recall the moment she knew she fallen in love it could have been when they drunkenly performed _She's Like The Wind_ at a local tavern a reckless thing she had done of course, or was it when they went to a French restaurant for a early lunch and he fingered her at the table and she cried out with her face buried in his neck. He had kissed her sweaty brow and told her he loved her. Maybe it was when he ate her out so selfishly at the cinema theater a boneless heap of nerve tingles is how she could describe her body after he was done with her.

He loved her on purpose.

/

He takes her back to his loft Otis Redding is blaring and she can't help but want to wrap her arms around him and collapse into the strength of his body. He whisks her into the bedroom that is dark with only a peek of sunlight slipping through the crack of the mahogany drapes.

Linen bed sheets are toss on the floor and only the fitted sheet remains. They are having a picnic in his bedroom. Pepperoni pizza and white wine. She doesn't turn up her nose at the feast she instead takes a pepperoni into her mouth and smiles faintly.

"What am I doing Fitz?"

"We are eating pizza and drinking wine. I'd say we're having a party."

She smacks her teeth folding her arms before her. "I am someone's wife."

"I'm sorry I didn't pick upon that small hindrance before."

"Don't be smart."

"Livvie we've had this conversation before. I'm aware your married it doesn't bother me, but it bothers you. I love you more than I should and damn it I just can't get enough of you."

"I'm going out of mind Fitz. It's funny I see myself as this woman that has it all under control and then there's you simply fucking my entire life out of focus and I'm left wondering who I was before this and the scary thing is I'm not sure I ever want to go back."

"You don't have to go back."

"This is absolute madness."

"Livvie you aren't the devil for falling in love with me and you're not a terrible person for cheating on your husband."

"What I am then Fitz."  
"You're a lot of things but coward isn't one of them."

"Fitz be quiet."  
Abruptly he stands rushing to his closet. She watches him amused but slightly apprehensive at his sudden surge of energy. Turning back out of the closet he has two ties in his hand.

Her stomach clenches. His jaw tightens and comes to her wrapping the ties around his neck.

"Tell me you trust me."

She nods slowly. "I trust you."

Fitz raises an eyebrow. A swaggering arrogance consumes his strides he takes her hips in his hand pulling her entire body flush to his. She whimpers like it's her last breath.

"I don't want to hear you utter another syllable about your pathetic fucking marriage."  
She blanches mouth opening mid vowel, but she silences the words before they come to her throat. He was absolutely right. Her marriage was pathetic.

And she missed the salty taste of his cum.

/

The darkness greets her she's blindfolded. Her wrist are tied bound behind her. He pins her against the wall the tip of her breast kissing the paint.

She doesn't expect the roughness. He's never been rough with her. Always so sweetly even in his strokes, but today a Fitz is man that cannot contain his frustration. She understand it.

He smacks her bottom hard her legs twist and her toe curls before tipping into a arch. The blend of pain draws her to erotic insanity.

Chest heaving she slams her shoulder blade against the wall he's kneeling in front of her his hands roaming her ample hips biting her flesh. He will leave marks, because he's desperate. She will let him because she does not care anymore.

"Say it." He says in voice that would frighten Satan. taking a fistful of her hair in his hand he pulls a little not enough to hurt. He doesn't want to hurt her. Her knees scratch the wall. She doesn't speak she would like to tease him. It's a game.

A hard smack reaches her left butt cheek and a harsh moan leaves out her mouth. Pulling her backward by her hair his tongue runs along the side of her mouth.

"Say it Livvie." He presses the length of his body against her his erection poking her backside.

"It's yours."


	2. The Last Temptation of Fitzgerald Grant

The Last Temptation of Fitzgerald Thomas Grant

1987, Augusta Georgia

He had called her. The watery tears chalked down his throat. Needy and pleading he had beckoned her this puzzle unhinged and scattered tore at the seams of her insides. Leaving her floating in a distant cave that was a lover's purgatory. Fitzgerald Thomas Grant did not do much to woo her. He hadn't wooed her at all. The choir boy had clinched his robe unflinchingly to the highest button; there was no room for chaste kisses to his bobbing nervous Adam's apple. Delicate feminine fingers could not caress the veins of his throat. Fitz as she called him was a mercurial mystery, but he was also her unwilling friend. If Jesus was tempted by the concerns of lust Olivia was Fitz pinnacled temptation.

Man's temptation had always been woman, but really man's biggest crime was himself. He built monuments for a reckoning of idolatry. Founding fathers penning doctrines of declared independence and yet rumbling in their back yards were captive Africans. Sure it was women with their prim dresses that caused men to falter. For them to rip open their legs with sodden fury and pin the punishing guilt on women for their tempting flesh.

No men hated women and women had been paying with their wombs.

/

Olivia is tripping over her feet in worry. Trembling fingers tap the brim of her top lip. She wonders around the front porch aimlessly. The chipped paint of the house draws her in. It is the gentle, sturdy wood that stands simply silent amongst the rustic rouge bricks of colonial houses. Rickety pickup trucks line grovel driveways, swing sets steep in earthly grass and a silver eyed cat scamper down the curb looking for a crumb to quell a starved stomach ache. Turning her head to the feline she almost trails back into the house for a piece of bread, but she thinks otherwise_. _ Fitz is a rambling thread coasting in her mind. When had he become a prayer that she just couldn't succumb to God?

She stares out again into the blaring bleak darkness, the moon whistling a pale dance across the orbit of night. Olivia doesn't do emotion well she isn't bowed by the symphony of anguish. It makes her gangly desperate, she mines a smug indifference to reign in the heaving gush of vulnerability.

The blinding headlights approach and she stills, before loosening her tense wounded bones into a calm stance. Fitz had always made her uneasy with his casual boyish elegance, tousled bourbon hued curls and the deepest wave of blue eyes.

It was his eyes that wreaked havoc on her nights. She never looked them in the eye the men that she had romped with in aggressive throes of lukewarm passion. It was easy to pay attention to the curl of a nostril or the chapped peel of a lower lip, she had her way with lovers and they in return thanked her with their backs turned.

The steel creak of a heavy car door resounds and Olivia shook at the harsh noise. The inside of her cheek pinched by her molars she curls her fist into her palm and waits for the staggered slump ego that has been crippled by a fist, slap, push. She pushes her own fury away let's her eyes meet the intense crude wounds that light up like constellations. Boy he's a looker even with a pulsing seared clumped eye and a jaw that's tightened with swollen flesh. Big Gerry gave him a horrific make over. She doesn't look him in the eye just yet; she's too fascinated by the sheer devastation plastered on his pale face.

He's walking with infant feet, anxious, but frightened with each step the tip of his toes replicate. Would it be so bad if he rip his hair from his scalp, gouged out his eyes and ate his face, because today he's feeling like a zombie? A living but truly dead thing. Holding his breath he waits for rejection, a kiss, bashful chiding anything to help him breathe again. Her arms so small and brown he could find home in them if he could just get his body to her.

She doesn't give him a chance to take another footstep towards her instead she runs into his chest wrapping her arms tight around his strong body. His body is all feeling hot rage waving through his flesh like Devil is tapping him with his pinky. For a moment she just holds him so clingingly to her she's afraid she will break him even further.

The embrace demanding and pleading her cheeks crushed to his crisp white shirt and her fingers resting at the waistband of his worn denim jeans the beats of his heart jumping in her ear drum and the coffee smell lingers.

"You're so stupid. Gosh, you stupid man. Thinking you can fight your father." She cries.

"I'm nothing Livvie." He tells her so sure of this sentiment. The self loathing marking its territory.

She finally looks up at him and she almost winces at the heartbreak shaking him down. anger whipping at the corner of his eyes. She whispers.

"Don't you dare say that! Don't make yourself a martyr with your own tongue"

His face scrunches into scowled exasperation and he looks like a beautiful monster to her.

"Livvie this isn't Shakespeare. I will conquer my own tragedy." He mocks.

Her lips touch his chest and she stutters like a nervous scolded child. "Shut up Fitz. Come in the house with me. Minnie and Eloise love you, they won't blink an eye if you stay the night."

He attempts to squint but he looks like his face is stuck perpetually winking, glancing at the defiant pout on her face. He would laugh if his face didn't hurt so awfully.

"I can't do that my father is probably already starting his witch hunt for me. "

Olivia looks up at him again, stomach tangled in loopy knots and her mouth dry with tortured words. She could beg him plant kisses up and down his face, but he'd push her away, flame on about Jesus being his chosen love and she'd just wrinkle his path to salvation. Her heart would bruise at the religious contrivance, or perhaps he believed his Lord and savior could quell the ache that steamed underneath his belly and to the itch of his groin.

She presses her lips harder to his chest hoping to leave a stain., her hands inching up his back she scratches the sensitive skin there. Fingertips lying like possessive lingering coals on the small of his flesh. He's playing with fire and Olivia's got the flames on his back. A grunt a moan she's not sure whispers out his throat.

"Livvie," he rasp , low like a unforgivable utterance, a growl really ,that frightens but strikes lightening down to the core of her body and then she moves her hands and his body isn't rigid anymore.

They played this game before she touched him and he'd lose his breath. She was distracting and alluring in all the ways young women are.

He doesn't look at her because he knows her eyes are filled deep with puddle sorrows that had bewitched him before. Sinking is what his heart is doing, first it clangs to the chambers of his chest like a lifeline, but now it seemed to slip out of shape and plummet into the cement of his stomach. He doesn't want to hurt her, that would be a crime, but he needs to commit to the hell and brimstone of his father's sermons. Women are a temptation he must not falter, but he battles with the wars ragging turbulence inside his head and he can't stop himself from gently kissing his lips to the curve of her forehead. So shy he is to betray such a unlikely sin. He kisses her the way a father kisses his beloved child. Chaste with honest affection.

It jolted Olivia out of her skin literally made her bolt right out of her flesh. This wasn't her first kiss, but the patented sweetness nearly made her fall over. She shivers and she isn't willing to admit it's not the swirling heated wind.

They stand still limbs fighting to stay wrapped around each other. The night hushes like a cooing grandmother. What a picture the two could be. She standing in high heeled Mary Janes, denim hot pants, and a silk salmon pink camisole that stopped at her belly button and her hair rippling chocolate brown curls bundled around her face. Minnie said she looked like a hooker, Eloise had nudged her hip and said she looked like a woman ready to intact world domination.

Olivia chewed on her lips smearing the metallic lavender gloss she had painted on. Her fingers swimming at the nape of his neck. She took a bloated breath, her lips touching the rough scruff of his chin. Her words muffled, she mutters.

" It's not right he's using the wrath of God to break your face open. You used to look so pretty."

The first smile cracks across his face and she wants to kiss him terribly make him blind with want, but she tempers it all. She laughs a little before resting her forehead on his chest.

What is it that she is doing. Falling in love not so quickly and not so soon, but he's her friend. He had crept into her life unexpectedly, a miracle that she didn't know she had been thirsting for. He's carved out spaces of himself inside her sprouting like dandelions never plucking because the root is where he sits. The sweeping silences that they never felt in a rush to fill. Relationships have never owned her; she was never falling on her face in love. No, she didn't want to trap herself that way; she had her men that would want to plant seeds in cactus ground. The country hick, whose voice reminded her of hickory smoked ribs. She always hated barbeque, but his tongue tasted like Pineapple soda. He tried to strangle her with his affection, but it felt like suffocation. Then there was the Marine veteran who's haunted fist licked bed sheets when nightmares spasmed his war torn body. After him was the bookish professor, stuttering male nurse, quietly arrogant college athlete and they all never captured her heart, but they did try to possess her.

The night nips her flesh and her body shivers with the awkward chill, her arms gather tighten around him, never loosening for fear she just may lose herself too. It's that hollow swallowing edge that makes her revolt back into the polite piece of herself, but she doesn't move.

"Livvie," he says her name like a confession. "We can go to a hotel."

He doesn't want to take her to his place, because then he would have to burn it down to a hot simmering ash. She doesn't want to step foot into the Jesus shrine herself, having been there once and feeling like a naked sinner bare before Jesus with her sins branded on her flesh. She had seen the white typically suburban home it reminded her of the home Carrie White died in.

She tilts her head brushing her nose against his chin, she mutters like a nun full of doubt.

"Ok." That is all she offers.

/

The static radio is playing Aretha's All Night Long. It was sexy. A youthful Aretha Franklin at the magnetic heights of her vocal power. She had never sounded so jazzy and desperate for a man's lust. It was sex and gospel.

She had always loved Aretha Franklin. The torched melancholy that wept orchestrated soul out her plumb body. She was the Queen. The queen of woman scorn. Belting the blues in deafening havoc, Olivia knew that blues. It bum rushed her veins lifted the tattered pieces of her that didn't go quietly.

Freeway of Love wasn't her favorite song but all the greats are eventually surpassed. The notes drops and sopranos whittle and that lightening struck riff is dust trapped in the vocal chords. But Olivia just couldn't part with her _This Girl Is In Love With You_ album. Minnie had bought her Whitney's Houston's new tape; she dug Whitney enough to run the tape raggedy from overplaying You Give Good Love.

Whitney was pristine promise, but Aretha was strict gut. Collard greens simmering overnight, pink rollers tousled in your and a lover wrapped in yesterday's sheets. She spoke to the woman that was too stubborn to leave a trifling no good son-of-a-bitch. She felt like a woman in one of Aretha's songs right now.

Cinnamon candles and Crystal burgers waft the small hotel room. Olivia looks at the high slanted ceiling , the stark white walls , coiled tan carpet and dust screened television that only supports five channels. There she is lying on the queen sized bed with its itchy comforter and sickly white bedding. Her knees twist with nervous apprehension. She looks to her left and Fitz is standing quietly like a stone at the glass window. She's afraid he may jump through it if she doesn't talk.

"Why aren't you married." She asks . "You're handsome enough . If God really loved you he would have given you a wife already." A chuckle or giggle is how she ends the question.

He doesn't turn to look at her, but the gloom from before still weighs down his voice. His shoulders slump further she's looking for a fight. A titan of menace wrangling her venom to store just for his displeasure. She could be wicked, but he adored her in the least platonic way. He was damning his cock and the freshly urges to kiss the soft curves of her body. So sweet. So vulgar.

Tapping his head along the fogging glass he answered. "Because I spend my time frolicking around town with a 20 year old harlot. " There is no humor to what he says, he tried to persecute her with his word, but Olivia knows him well and she knows herself too. She isn't dumb to the perception of her. The town mumblings of her sex life.

She rolled her eyes crossing her legs in a deathly way that screamed fuck me or hold me. "Hey I'm no harlot. A girl wears a mini skirt and suddenly she's had more dicks inside her than a porn star."

Her shoulders shrug a smirk curling at her lips.

Scoffing he turns to look at her and his cock twitches at the sight. Shoving his head into his pockets he stirs his body back to the windowsill. "That mouth of your has gotten filthier."

"Oh, baby wouldn't you like to know."

He doesn't respond. Jaw clinching so tight his teeth ache.

Her voice lights up with an angry pitch. "You're pathetic Fitz. Your thirty years old and you've never touched a woman, because leading the life of a pseudo monk is more appealing."

"Would you rather I be a Casanova and sully my wild oats around town?"  
"No precious baby, I'd rather you be free from all that religious dogma." Her eyes dared him to challenge her.

Nasty hateful things rummaged his mind he bit the inside of his lip tasting crimson liquid. He fought the urge to be a brute. Livvie, his temptress, she gives him brutal truth and Fitz stammering at the cusp of his tongue a sharp dig to sink at Olivia.  
"Your one to talk sleeping with every Tom, Dick, and Harry that sniffs at you. Does that make you better than me Livvie because you've turned your back on God?"

He wishes he could hide, or break open his flesh and give her his rib, like Adam.

She doesn't flinch her heart doesn't drop It had been the swelling of their continuous argument. "So we come full circle again. I'm a whore and you're a skittish preacher's son who's Daddy likes to pound on your face whenever he feels the Holy Spirit."

Lips pressed and eyes narrowed she's taking knives and digging them into his back. Why won't he look at her?

He can't glue his heart into hers, pick pocket her spirit and wear it like armor, but Olivia is not a thing to be possessed molded into male function. She'd rip out her own veins before she dwindled her light.

Love hurts, but it doesn't stamp leeches on your heart. Fitz is a man. Women sit in the imagination of men, he makes her and women rebel falling down tunnels of themselves clutching the terror in their hand. See woman had to find herself in man, but she didn't like what she saw and men confused this betrayal. Woman wanted to find herself in herself.

Olivia was used to boys men sniffing out her desperation, tasting what they want, plucking out the pieces of her that were pretty and shoveling more debris on her breath. When she opened her mouth their ghost fly out.

They have fallen into an uncomfortable space; words linger rattling with the cowardly strike of tongue.

His knees quiver under the feeble insensitivity. Bracing his hand on the glass, he opens his lips and hopes a cry doesn't fall out. "Livvie let's stop. We've hurt each other enough."

Olivia felt a charring in her chest broken apart in splices, her frustration timid. "Fitz why did you bring me here if you were going to be staring out the window the entire time. I could be home watching Denise Huxatable and company with Minnie and Eloise."

His voice strangling under his misery. He turns his head to look at her finding Olivia's expression precious and warm. "I want to make love to you I've wanted to make love to you the first day I saw you and that is a sin. A sin of the flesh. A sin of lust. "  
She doesn't say anything at first. She shuts her eyes tight to stop the tears from slipping through. No man had ever wanted to make love to her. She tells him "Baby it aint a sin if it feels good. No sin in that at all."

Gaping holes of perfect weary puncture the cells of his heart. He trembles with every limb in his body so surrounded by the temptation that he has fawned over for a year. His heart weighs a ton it's brimming with shard pricks of glass that pierce him with vigor. _Don't cry._ _Don't cry._

He wants love.

A muffled moan springs, taunting his own indelible fragility. Sobbing was for women with melodramatic hysterics. He could not cry, but the tears swung from his eyelids, like blossoming parachutes. His knees crack bringing him to the floor and he tries to breath to make his lungs whistle, but dear God he's a man trapped by the cage of Satan.

Oh God no he's crying and his shoulders shiver with each sob that hiccups out his throat.

Dawdling footsteps Olivia takes to slump her body against his. He's a blubbering mess, bruised face and hot tears that feel like the center of the Earth. She cups them in her hand and hopes his pain drops down into the brown veins of her palm. Her other hand waving through his hair like a soothing mother to a teething baby.

Love finds itself in mysterious ways. A wayward girl fabricating tales of lost loves, but really just half battled dalliances and the shepherding minister's son who had a penchant for wanderlust and his father's fist. Miraculously their hearts sauntered into place.

Olivia stood first taking Fitz hand with hers. His sobs had quieted they teetered to the ledge of the bed, Olivia's knees folding at the hem of the mattress. She lets his body fall over, limbs breaking down into a lover's prayer, she doesn't mine the weight. The crush is good and she just wants love. Tonight she will be loved. Tomorrow, well she won't be presumptuous.

Fitz weakened by the flesh lets it all fall apart and the bible verses erase from the scribes on his chest. He's breathing like a man lit on fire. Butterflies such a juvenile feeling scraped his stomach, nibbling his insides. Breathe was what he needed, but his lungs pruned.

He's looks down at her the dainty curve of her flesh pressed to his solid frame. He had craved her perky breast in his mouth, but he needed to kiss her first, but the moment was still raining with uncertainty.

He just holds his cheek to her forehead, and then ten feminine fingers wrap around his back like a possessive vine. She whimpers quietly.

"Your not so bad when you aren't being a bible thumping dick." Whispering like her tongue owns all her secrets.

She reached out and touched the weathered scars on his face his bruises landmines that her fingers tempted. He captured her hand and gently kissed the backs of her fingers.

"Your so mean. It's no wonder I want you so bad." He smiles so bright. She'd take the sun and give it to him.

He wants to kiss her. His dreams so plodding with her lips and the way her tongue would taste. He had shunned those fantasies crippled down on his knees and praying harder than a Catholic priest.

She grinned, her brown eyes so tainted with affection. "What did you want to be when you grew up?"

He wanted to build a safe house for women that ran from their husband fist in the night. He wanted to make a place for his mother.

His smile fades, shrinks with the line of his lips. "I wanted to make my mother happy. She died when I was ten, but you already know that. I never got over it. It just sort of stays with never leaving me alone. I don't think about her much anymore if I can help it, but sometimes I'd wake up in the middle of the night and I just wanted her to hold me. Tell me stories about the stars."

She gave him a weak smile. "You're making it very hard for me to hit it and quit it."

'Stop, say something real." Fitz says softly.

She stares into his eyes so afraid of the what was underneath those irises. She could tell him about her Momma, Olivia never really talked about her. Something like a kiss creeps out of her and she takes her lips to his cheek. He brought his fingers to her lip tracing the them like a thousand mysteries had been pecked there, an utterly intense sweetness.

Her chest danced like marbles were pinning around. Rising and falling between her shoulder blades, so contained by a grief she had been willing to shed. She had found someone to love. Something in her hummed vibrated with a song and then she felt all the dungeon parts of her opening and she pulled Fitz closer holding him tight. It was very silent but soon she spoke.

"You know how most people leave with their backs turned or in the dark so they can hide their shame. Not my mother when she brought me to live with Minnie and Eloise I couldn't get over her face. She looked like pain, crying like she had just committed the greatest crime and in some ways she did. She wouldn't allow me to hate her. "

"Sometimes I think God just wants people together because it makes him happy. I fought him, but I just couldn't quit you."  
" I couldn't quit you either."

A soft wisp of a kiss. Lips whispering, panting out frantic with heat. She was all delicate strings of pure womanness. His fingertips cooing with affection. She wanted to weep.

Her bones almost break under the crash of their lips.

His lips a salvation that she covered with her own, he tasted like coffee and desperation. He was nervous and she understood, so her tongue slow and deliberate in his mouth. She cradled his face in her hands an act so innocence, it left them crooning with achingly tender pleas. The tip of his tongue new with a melting lick and she found herself gasping, so divine was his sweet wet tongue. Fitz was kissing her and she was kissing him back. His fingers wandering underneath her camisole, touching her stomach, so hot it all felt, she was suffocating and she never wanted to breathe again The pad of his thumb underneath her left breast rubbing so soft ,pecking the puckered nipple with his fingertip. His teeth find her clavicle pinching it with his teeth. Damn breath when dying felt this good.

Their body's move Olivia finds her hips straddled against his, their clothes scattered on the floor. He looked at her body all of it. Fitz had never seen a woman without clothes before. Small breast like plums with pretty chocolate tipped nipples. A waist made for his hands to cover with nips of languor. Hips from her mother, perfect for him to grasp while burying himself inside her.

She was bare and so was he. Adam and Eve seeking out the wonders of the world, but for Fitz and Olivia it would be their bodies that they each conquered with a relentless ease.

A mercy ripening his cock teasing with electric veins, her fingertips squeezing his shoulders.

"I'll take care of you." She whispers, it's a lullaby.

"Talk to me." He's a nervous wreck, scrunching his nose.

She begins to move her body against him, his cock rubbing her slippery lips. It felt so right, and they had denied themselves. Fitz pinned with biblical darts and Olivia map less without a clue to reach love. It's overwhelming. her smell, soft whimpers that leave her lips and they couldn't stop because their hearts would explode. Blood spattered all over the place.

"You think I can love someone if I don't love myself yet."

She set his lips on him and sucked his tongue into his mouth.

Fitz shook his head taking her breast in his hand, kissing the top of the soft flesh. "God loves you."  
" Baby don't do that now, "she continued. " Jesus aint got nothing to do with this. This is me and you here." She lowered her head biting his nipple licking it in lazy curves. His body shiver almost hiccupped underneath her. "Everybody around here thinks I'm some kind of slut. I'm not. I just want to feel something other than this arctic feeling up in my chest."  
" No" He kissed her nose." Don't you ever get tired Livvie, being con of love."

"It's comforting being alone." She reasons thoughtfully. "Then to deal with the push and pull. The rejection, the utter fucking neglect. I get lonely, baby. I'm lonely all the time, I'm a woman, and I need sex."

"You don't need sex, but you desire it frequently." Suddenly his tongue ran along her lip.

Rubbing the tip of cock at her wetness taunting and ever teasing She let him slipped inside her, she watched as his eye widen in shock. Trembling hard his body arched, toes pinching the bed sheets. Fitz begs his heart to stop beating so fast.

"Perhaps I do." She took his hands placing them on her hips. She pulls herself into him a million times fleeting rockets of ecstasy make her hips jump with erotic agony. Slumped over his body teeth digging in his shoulder, she takes him so deep and it's never felt this right. Sorrow couldn't squeeze in, because the connection steeled with their tears.

Like a virgin she rises and falls over him, so prickly hot. Breath whooshing out her body.

Fitz canting thrust deliberate and pure, her hips clutched in his hands, seeking the swaying of her body. He touches a sensitive spot and she sobs something that is a string of expletives, her limbs coiled spasms, shuddering out delight, knuckles lightly slamming across the bed sheets, to endure the throng of sensitivity. Her screams met with the musk of his neck, she bites careless to his pain.

One last harsh thrust, her thighs tremble, haltingly he fills her so full she can't breathe his soft growls inside her hear. He pinches her nipples tentatively like he will be chastised for his pleasure. Her pleasure. Moaning spirals and her head is thrown back hanging out towards the air, rippling muscles slacken. She's falling apart. She doesn't wish to fix herself again.

His heart chips not out of heartbreak, but because this is all for him,

Orgasms lift them to a sanctuary, it's baptism that thrills. Pounding chants, sweat tickling their belly buttons; making love in a rollicking way. So slow, but yet they could black out if either stopped the thread jump roping between them.

Bobby Womack is shouting about an ungrateful lover. The clock reads twelve midnight. Sunday has awakened.

/

_**A/N: So I hate writing smut, but I will admit I don't enjoy writing it because it's just not a strength of mine and my writing outside of fanfic is smut free. **_

_**Enough of that though I hope no one is offended by this story; I wasn't trying to shame women's sexuality or mock religion in anyway. There is a quote which I'm paraphrasing that says everything a writer writes doesn't mean it's their belief or opinion. I'm a feminist so I think women should be able to do whatever they want with their vaginas. Expect put cigarettes inside them that's just dangerous. **_

_**Also I hope the age difference didn't creep you out, most of my friends are in college and have dated guys in there late twenties the oldest being 32, so it isn't abnormal. College guys can be wieners!**_

_**Why are my author's notes so long, like why can't I simply tell you guys to read and review? **_

_**One more thing before you die of boredom I'm working on two one shots, Olitz living in Vermont during the 50's or 60's like why did racism and miscegenation exist it 's so hard writing my favorite couple in different decades, because I'm like the KKK would be on their ass if I set the story in Georgia. **_

_**The other is Olivia a talented ballerina and Fitz a photographer looking for a muse. **_

_**So I'm working on those now, but on a random note have any of you notice that most fanfic stories are alternate universe now. Like there are literally no new stories set in the actual Scandalverse. I guess it's because Scandal the show started to resemble a alternate universe. **_

_**I have a tumblr now (apollonialust) which is weird because I hate social media. If I could send letters via mail and not be deemed a nostalgia fiend I would. **_

_**I'm a chatterbox. Read. Review. Smoke A Blunt.**_


	3. Ballerina

_Let me start off by saying your reviews are so kind and wonderful. If I don't respond to any of them it's because I'm too busy doing gangsta shit. Just kidding! Seriously I'm an introvert and shy so social interaction on the internet even scares me. Tell what you think, because I feel like I went all Sylvia Plath on this one shot._

* * *

_Ballerina_

_The bleach burns pricks her skin like the stabbing betrayal of a thousand butter knives. The smudge prevails never once wailing at her desperate amateur pursuit to be something other than herself. Bleach won't cover her skin, because it's impossible she's all crushing tints of blackness with puffy coils of cloudy pigtails and thick lips that quiver when her heart is beaten into submission. She just wants to not have to be twice as good._

_So she cups the Clorox in her trembling fingertips and shivered when the clear acid met all brown flesh. She didn't scream just bit her lip until a coppery liquid flooded her mouth. _

_Today a pale girl with ginger hair and worn freckles called her a monkey another wound opened up and she plunged inside hopelessly. Like tiny fragments of herself beckoned the falling apart, froth at the mouth at her ambiguous indifference at her shade. She had to be twice as good to be human, but what about the other stuff._

/

Conneticut 1996

Her body bows at the banal guitar riff of _Ballerina_. She always did like Van Morrison at least he wasn't pretentious like Bob Dylan. The folk harmony underneath soul sensibility had always been peculiar to others when they watched her body sway with a delicate scrutiny. Preferring the jarring rattled squeal of Van Morrison's upturned smoky rasp she seemed to need his music to dip into a staggered pirouette. She battled her limbs to rivet into a single shape. Legs twisted into impossible limbo, but her body didn't flinch. It had succumbed to the ever bending wave of her torso. She closed her eyes following the rhythm, she saw her mother's face curls whipping across her cheek on the Twirl-A-Wheel, the last time she had even seen her smile before everything turn to eclipsing midnight. She banishes the thought before spinning up on her heel and like a divine water stream on a sweltering summer night she beams into air her toes pointedly arched and she ripples down to her heel, arms planted in front of her gracefully.

She doesn't hear the applause the beat of _Ballerina _just stutters on in her mind. For a ticking time she opens her eyes and sees' the sea of pleasantly hysteric faces up on their feet, arms flapping in praise.

Her father is standing too nearly bouncing with pride. Perhaps today she is good enough, if only for today.

/

She shakes her hair out of the tight bun, tickling her scalp with her fingertips. Her hair comes down limply in a roar of chocolate hued ringlets. She fingers the strands tugging on the ends like a roving toddler looking for amusement. It was always her hair that brought forth attention. The pestering curiosity her classmate had at her tresses bothered her. The abysmal questions, "How does it get like that?" "Is it soft?" "Oh my God it must be so hard dealing with your kind of hair. Right?" and the most offending "Can I touch it?"

Her hair had never been her glory but she wore it like a badge of difference. _I am other because you make me this way. _

She'd stumble with the giggles at their puzzled faces when she came to school with it bone straight tapping her shoulders. Then the next day it was surrounding her face in a cottony halo, of course Rowan berated her for costing him a fortune on the hair appointment only for her to douse her hair in water completely ruining the style. She didn't care it was her way of dealing with the absurdity that she couldn't possibly straighten her hair in the exact way that they do. They, meaning her clueless but often times well meaning class mates.

The wave of chatter isn't inviting backstage. Prim svelte figure girls with china doll buns tousled on top of their head, giggling with frightened amusement. Some pointe their toes and others just stare out into space guided by the torture of being alone. All of them so thin with muscle, pink leotards painted to their skin. Hip bones jutted out and cheeks pale from early morning vomiting. She needed an apple something to chew on before she screamed. She hadn't touched popcorn in a week when she read in Glamour magazine that it causes her stomach to bloat, along with wine. Damn, her for being a ballerina. She forgot what food tasted like because her body was all adagio, sautés, and Arabesque. Some of the girls forgot to eat on purpose, she would here the retching in the bathroom stalls and turn on her heel, so predictable and yet sad. She stayed clear of their pointer fingers, coated with last night spaghetti, or the morning's bland oatmeal. She could never be so courageous and hungry too. She ate because her body wouldn't forgive her for the betrayal. / She swallows the lasagna thick and meaty down her throat. It doesn't have enough oregano. Just a tad too much Ragu sauce. It will sit in her belly like balled up fist. Her eyes lift watching her father dab his chin red pasta sauce on him like a wound. She had seen him smile today.

"Dad." She says. For once she doesn't grimace when the words tickle out her voice. It's not an endearment, just words forced out her mouth.

"I appreciate you coming to the recital. It meant a lot." She almost smiles. Almost.

"Your mother would have been proud. You we're beautiful out there."

She doesn't breathe or maybe she had never gotten her breath back when her mother died. She's just been floating with shriveled lungs.

"Thank you."

He says nothing else simply giving her a polite smile that shines with hundred year old tears.

/

Susannah Grant is Olivia's best friend. The quixotic brunette powered the halls of Miss Porter's School. Floating down bubblegum popped, Burberry perfume scented hallways, ears rumbling with the chatting whispers of the student body of Miss Porter's School. Envious vamps nicknamed the duo the Trouble Twosome. They would sweep into a quieted classroom all plaid skirts hiked to their waist and knee highs dangerously laced and begin a throttle of academic domination. Teachers bristled at their knack of sprouting out undiscovered facts that most students left in the dust of their textbooks. Susannah brash with her knowledge Olivia clever and demure allowed people to unexpect anything but brilliance from her tongue, but then she would strike like any serpent full of venom. Poisonous with ever drip of her words. Susannah was president of Student Council and Fitzgerald "The Legend' Grant baby sister.

The rumor was that Fitzgerald Grant had conquered at least a hundred girls while he attended the neighboring Hotchkiss School. His sexual appetite exaggerated with each tale. The Chinese piano prodigy who he bedded after she rousingly played Bach for him in a negligee. A Brazilian wanderer who was deflowered by "The Legend" in a bathroom stall during the Sadie Hawkins dance. An Afro- Cuban sophomore who dressed like a mod sixties impersonator, sucked him dry in a dank stairwell above the chorus room. The web of breast, pussy and wing tipped eyelashes reached countries. His penis imperialistic, colonizing and privileged.

None of it was true, fabrication of idle minds, seeking out the handsome heart or cock, depending on the girl of Fitzgerald Grant. What was certain is he had briefly dated Mellie Geseck. An icky but calculating debutante. The coupling didn't last a week before her shrill voice sent Fitz into a tunnel of madness.

Then he had found a girl after autumn lifted scorching reins of summer from amber trunked trees ,washed Connecticut in a rustic red melee of leaves. She was beautiful, perfected shades of gold, sienna, and sepia all painted on one body. To love her would be his greatest fortune.

He had seen her first in a lavender leotard almost floating in his backyard. Petite limbs swinging in delicate precision lifting her body up to the sky and down to the wonderful ground. Bewildered college freshmen he had been after only a few weeks at the United States Naval Academy he had gotten a break from the military pageantry and devotion and he flew home to a divine beauty.

Beneath the poised crinkle of her lip was an ash of melancholy that Fitz sank his teeth in. He knew that look and so slowly they fell in love underneath the ambivalent eye of everyone around them. A bruising kind of love that no one was privy to, but the lovebirds themselves.

They weren't ashamed of course, but love this pure was only sacred, so miles of letters and a trail of phone calls and invisible visits the two seemed to be falling apart in love. Stitching hearts veins back together so they could live.

Somehow they survived the dark cellar nights in the purgatory of their schools of choice. The liberal pro woman dormitories of Miss Porter's School that boasted future feminist of a patriarchal male dominated world, they would conquer in high heeled pumps or Birkenstocks. And Fitz secluded in the rigid margins of stoic patriotism and hyper masculinity.

Love found a way, well then it always does.

/

His tongue wiggled over her clit, such lazy lapping licks."

Olivia knuckles bent, near white strangling the seat belt clutched in her grasp. Feet curling in a bunch on the dashboard. Reckless lust had awakened a stammering arousal that saw no end. He took his time with her sensitive tip nibbling and wooing all her delicate parts.

"Slow,baby,slow." She tells him. Her heading spinning between an upheaval and a well. Nas Illmatic is whispering out the speakers. The chipped tooth rapper spitting gritty tales of capitalistic pursuit in the underbelly of America. She likes making love, fucking to rap music. Something so strange about the bombastic beats breathing poetry out as her body curled with an orgasm.

Her legs spread on the heap of his shoulders. The leather seat stuck to her sweaty bottom. His fingers digging into her hip ,smacking her fleshy thigh with his calloused hand. She yelped and bucked her face closer to his eager tongue.

"Fitz." She whispered so sweet. Her heart soaring out pumps of love. He wouldn't stop and she was careless with want for him, fierce lust jump roping her veins.

Feathery twirls of his tongue, the pink tip touches her so deeply and strokes into a shattering bliss and she's falling down into ribbons of jerking shivers.

Soft he is with her body all pleasured tingles that blow , her fingertips scratching his scalp, legs clapping down on his neck. Her limbs a crashing freight train.

"My God, My God. My God." She hisses unable to bite down on her lips any longer.

It always happened this way. The shock of her orgasm taking her like a bandit, seeking out a prized jewel. It didn't belong to her, as if her body had been snatched and put under a spell she had no choice to succumb to. Before she stopped twitching he mustered a few more teasing licks that made her whimper and arch her body upward. He could make her come again, but his eyes whistle over her body, she was loose with heat and her hair messy all over face. It would be tangled webbing torture to bring her body to the brink once again. Instead he lets his head rest on her flat tummy. Caring fingers pulls her skirt back down to her thighs. Kissing then biting the soft spot under her ribs. She jerks almost winced but her body lay still once again. Beneath the cave of those ribs are frantic heartbeats that he owns so flippantly. She hadn't been in a rush to give them to anyone. But with each breath he swoops in.

She starts to think that he's uncomfortable with his body crouched on the floor of the Jeep. Arching up she reaches for a button beneath the seat letting the seat further back.

" I love you so much." She tells him. She doesn't say it often. Not because it isn't true, but the words make her feel like she's gargling with sharp edged rocks.

" Your only saying that because I made you come." A joke, but was it really. He knew her, but sometimes. The cloaked shield she used to keep everyone at bay would rear its head.  
Rolling her eyes upwards, she says. "Shut up. You always make me come, but I love you Fitz. I really do."

He kisses her belly button.

"Say it again."

" I love you." She doesn't have a description for it. No love poems could decipher the comets rocketing them to each other. She stopped listening to love songs to find herself in them. They were all the same saccharine melodies, but never really love. The way she felt, was like the moon's shadow over the earth. The occurrence of raindrops kissing the hot crackled concrete. Hers lips can't find words to utter. Stripped down the voice and only a rasp is left. What other words are ever needed. I love you will do.

"I'm in love with you too dear sweet Olivia Pope." Laughter rolling out his skin, making his shoulders puff up and down.

She laughs with him, softly.

/

Steel chunks of balled planes center the grassy scape of land. Her hands tightens around Fitz. He's since gone quiet after they left the parking lot of her school. Her head bobs softly on his shoulder with every step he takes fingers touching the strap of the bulky Nikon camera around his neck.

"You ever heard of a pilot jet graveyard, Livvie?" He asks not looking at her only peering at the jungle maze of discarded planes. Some with charred wings others crooked from a drowning flight.

Her eyes fall to the slope of his nose. "Is that what this is? This is eerie Fitz. "

He stops himself from laughing at her innocent fright. " Trust me those ghost are long gone."

The night is blooming and a chill prickles her skin sending tiny goose bumps all over her arm. Just a faint shiver ripples down her spine. She's not one to be afraid of things that go bump in the night, but the mystery is haunting.

They walk past the rubble, silence their friend. She's tossed in her thoughts about her senior recital next month. Her spins have not caught enough flight lately. A cabriole here and then afouetté the movements mimicked in her DNA. Ballet was a destiny that mocked bodies, but asked the body to betray it's restraints. Olivia did so willing.

She's got the idea in her head to choreograph a dance to Bonita Applebum, it's totally bizarre, but then that would be the beauty of it. A balançoire to the lazy drumming and pop of the Rotary Connection sampled tune.

The new A Tribe Called Quest cd came out today, she will pick it up. Q-Tip is so handsome, but Phife is the real lyrical assassin. Clever and cherub with his winded verses. Discovering the group on a lazy Saturday flipping the television stopping on YO MTV Raps. African garb and vintage embellishment adorn their bodies, geometrical shaped haircuts zig zagging on their coiled head, and she dug the sensuality of their rhymes, not to harsh and not to preachy. She wasn't met with a barrage of insults to women when her cd player whirled their masterpieces, just jazz affected brilliance.

Fitz preferred The Beasties Boys.

She lifts her head to her lover, the only man she's ever loved and studies the pensive lines edging over his face. He's deep in thought. His toes tapping on another galaxy. Her lips touch the heart of his jaw.

"Where are we going?"

"I'm looking for a place for us to settle." He tells her squeezing the fingers interlocked with his.

The smile on his face is playful. She blushes a little then lets her eyes fall to the mystic coliseum of wreckage. There is no beauty to . A civil war with no victory. The jets crunched into unforgivable shape.

He takes them up a path that's lined with jagged stones and chipped aluminum. Her feet catches under a rock and she almost falls, but Fitz holds her steady. Train tracks greet them and they cross over them and into a hilly mound far up the plains.

Trees bend ,leaves falling at their feet, the blades of grass cover their shoes. Olivia bit her lips and held her breath too eager to get to their destination.

More planes lay sparse into silence, she wonders if the screams of those fearing men still echo in the hollowed sternum.

"We are here." Fitz says abruptly. Nostalgia perking at the corner of his lips.

Fitz peels off his jacket placing it on the ground his eyes dancing in some childish wonder he gestures for Olivia to take a seat. She plops down, happy to finally have a moment to rest.

Fitz takes a seat behind her, her body pressed between his knees. She has a soft spot right behind her ear. It's sensitive when he kisses it and it makes her squirm on his lap.

The leaves crunch under the weight of their bodies, but there is nothing, but boundless earth and forgotten planes. Well one dear boy hasn't forgotten. Smitten by the tarnish of yesteryears wars. Battle scars of worn old men, shooting blanketed bullets like steel arrows. Wars are hardly ever fought in congruence. The war between Olivia and herself to battle the tumult of her remembering her mother's lipstick kisses and then picking the scabs of her father's silence. Fitz war far less brutal just lonesome and vengeful of his father's death grip on his ambitions. But today, there won't be any casualties.

Fitz hand drifted to her shoulder, sliding the cotton button down to the edge, her naked shoulder touched by the wind. His lips panted such pretty kisses down her arm.

Olivia shut her eyes forgot she needed breaths to breathe. Sometimes he could make her feel like the dawning of heaven just opened up inside her. The miracle of his touch, blessed her calm flesh.

She turned sideways in his lap, the awkward angle made it hard for her to reach his lips, so she pecked his neck inside.

"Fitz, she lisps out like chalk is raining down her tonsils. "When you touch me like that. I can't breathe." Her expression cloudy with a vulnerability she hardly ever let's slither out, lower lip trembling, but chip by chip she let's herself be unbelievably naked. It scares her she's fearful of the love staring back at her in his grainy blue eyes. How could he love her? So broken down in herself.

Shaking hands cradle her face and she hopes he never let's go. Love is not only a closet that you step out of when the confines are to suffocating. Love just blooms.

He tilts his head toward hers, foreheads touching. "What am I going to do with all this love I have for you?" Is he asking her or himself?

"Drown me with it please." She says quietly. He wraps her in his arms, like an infant, because all she is is a girl who lost her mother, before she lusted after her first crush.

He smells like earth bitten trees and caramel candies, the protective weight of his arms rocking her in a bundle. Sometimes she needed to be held and she couldn't possibly circle her mouth open to evoke this pittance of words. She was haunted by pity. Pity for her terribly sad eyes. The spirit of her mother tangled around her heart. The weeping girl with the dead mother. How awfully shipwrecked she had to conquer womanhood alone.

Sometimes Fitz could be so selfish and thoughtless in the weight she stonewall to keep her sane, but then he'd touched her soak his words in syrupy limericks and she would fall. Fall right on her face and let the blood ooze down her chin.

Damn him for his fingertips. The infallible moon of his lips, pressing towards hers. It was hardly ever just a kiss. More like a pandemic. Spiraling out different regions of her body, clamping down her lungs so she wouldn't need oxygen. What's a girl need life for when her heart's been ripped from her chest?

Sunlight dims and darkness sneakily spills over the hanging trees and frolicking leaves kicked over by the wind and the chirping sounds of night break through. Whispers gather at the rustle of tumbling soil. No one can paint what lovers do in the midnight of their thoughts.

Olivia tugs Fitz camera from his neck a mischievous smile charming her face. She toys with the numerous buttons, curious, but blind to Fitz intense stare.

"You love this camera a more than you love me." She says, a question hitched in her throat. She squints her eye and places the camera to the peak of her eyelid. A click pitches and Fitz face is imprinted on the lens.

His brow rising, "You like to torture yourself with some wicked thoughts."  
Licking her lips she photographs him again. Catching him off guard with the noisy shutter of the camera. Mouth parting in a snarky retort, it flies off her tongue. "Answers the question. You son of a bitch." She's alluring seductive with the hint of skin peeking out her shirt. The jiggly wave of her breast careless as sin.

He bounces her on the weight of his thighs. Olivia's body a feather that is an unwavering tickle on the heat of his chest. His fingers rustle the fabric of her skirt, before the grasp of his hand cups her plumb butt cheek. The pad of his thumb pinching her with delicious pain.

The camera angles out her hands and she braces herself on his chest. Parted lips moan an "o" and she stretches her hips flush along his sturdy body.

Pretense has never been his strength. He loved a young woman whose wounds gaped open for scrutiny. Love pressed on his chest as her hips arched upward, his fingers leaving redden splotches on her bum. He hadn't meant to leave a mark.

She hisses, a scream a grunt scratches the surface. She fights the sullen lust that makes her impossibly hazy. What had become of her bawdy veneer?

She strikes him on the cheek, a wisp of a slap, and he smiles like any child on Christmas morning. The dainty curl of her hands wrap around his neck, the hint of violence, pulses the veins of his cock.

He smacks her bottom hard once and she whimpers, but it sounds like a song. He does it again and her heads fall into the crook of his neck. Two fingers slip inside her with a practiced ease, his thumbs patterning dominance on her clit.

Her fingers surrender to the blades of grass, as his fingertips hold her hostage. The tipping balance of submission that she fleetingly pecks with her impatience. Her feminine desire, so undiscovered before she explored the folds of her flesh. He cups the back of her neck pressing a kiss to the side of her face; her body grieves the loss of control. Shames her for giving into the brute strength of Fitz indulgence. No magic words are spoken just limbs working to unfurl.

It doesn't occur to either that this unsalvageable need is a death sentence. No other love can seep through. He knows what he wants and it is all so big. Something that could enslave them. Something that could boomerang into orbit and set aflame the universe. There is this kind of love that drags.

Her body trembles and her cunt swallows his thick fingers. Cunt such a vulgar pretty word. Her cunt such a vulgar pretty thing. Torn between craving and a sanctuary. She beckons the latter. Short and counted breaths earthquake out her mouth and she weeps a growled moan onto the skin of Fitz neck. He takes her breaking and falling.

The tug and pull of her hips rigid in a whining puzzle. She writhes like an orgasm has been sliced out her ribs.

He stains her with bruising kisses loved smeared at the corner of her mouth. The chaos has her unraveling, the blessing of a lover with a blissful agony. Her soft hair falls beside her eyes.

The twirl of his tongue licks the blush of her jaw he commits a tender rage pinching her cheek lightly with his teeth. He holds her waist tightly like they are journeying through the turbulent waves of the Atlantic Ocean. All they have is each other and that is enough.

"Your all mine." He soothed, stroking her brow, his lips against her temple.

/

Her breast jiggle in the lace cups of her bra. Fireflies light up with each wave of her arm. She moves her body like a sonnet. Steady sure, but brimming with patience. She moves her body because it tells her to. Not even the clicking of Fitz camera sways her out of the melody seeping seamless rhythm. Her legs pivot above her head and her toes arched down into the steel rust of the train track. She doesn't move she allows Fitz time to get the perfect image. Swinging her leg out the air, she twirls with a bend to her waist and runs with her heels into a leap that arches her body in an impressive split. Her hair splashed above, the click is heard and she's down again out the heavens and back towards the earth.

Fitz hands shook as he tried to capture every magnetic move her body contorted into hellish cataclysm. Who told her, her body was a sonnet. That she could brave the pinning suction of grief. She bursting at the seams, freeing up every limb that had been shackled. Fitz cant click fast enough, but she doesn't wait for his approval. She is all her own.

Wobbling on her ankle she stops bends at the waist to exhaust more breath to her body. Her eyes lift to Fitz. He stumbles closer not mindful of the dislocated branches decorating the dirt. He brings the camera inches to her smiling face. It paints a millions stars. He doesn't hesitate to clip the image. Stepping away she falls back in to a spiral of serenity.

Marvelous lithe limbs ripple like kites blowing kisses to the air. She was born of African drumbeats and Motown soul. Her hips hiccups, pining up and down like a sensual link of possession. Twisting and turning using her strength to begin on her half toe her right leg pulling her left leg in very small quick movement.

She picked up the vigor; parts of her moving faster than her body could keep up with, her toes leaving the ground every twenty seconds. It was flying that she liked. To be invincible, to almost reach stars.

The whooshing of an eruptive train paralyzed the silent night. Tugging it's tires along the track, but Olivia didn't give up.

"Livvie." Fitz nearly yells dropping the camera from his grasp. His body shaking with fear.

The jittering vibration of the train doesn't quell her staggered ciseaux, pas de. It's beautiful the way she lands and if Fitz wasn't pale with worry he would summon the camera to his splendid eye, his heart grips his chest when the train bum rushes out the trees and the glaring lights blare out into sight. He could fall apart today and death would not take him.

There was time when she had no voice when all she heard was static. Her mother took her to see Alvin Ailey it was her first time ever in New York. Those brown bodies practically beating the sorrows of their ancestor out with a swift arch of the foot. She sat with a gaping mouth and lemon drops tears glued to her face, her feet never stopped moving then and they wouldn't stop now.

Her chest puffing out millions of breaths, shuddering back into the loop of her arms, she rocked slowly in abandon. Her fears miles apart, she couldn't hear Fitz yelling or even the train spiraling towards her. She would be a ballerina with legs floating into place. The tears seem to taste her cheeks. She wasn't sad she was bravely happy.

He calls her name over and over, until he's hoarse. The tears swim at his eyelids. He was tiredly tormented watching her slowly ripping scattered pieces of herself everywhere with the sway of her hips. She could die, but yet the beauty of her movement left him in utter sadistic killjoy.

She lifted her leg high, arms raised above dangerously sinful, but before she could even leap out, her body was tackled to the hard soil.

The train rushes past, frightening her out her skin. She shields her face in the warmth of Fitz shadow. His body hot and wired with panic. She could probably feel his heart if she touched his chest.

Specks of dust float up from the plodding of the train.

The beauty of the moon lights up their skin. Cracking open the ambivalent darkness of the sky.

Her eyes open up and Fitz is staring at her with a bewildered brokenness. His fingers shiver with apprehension and love as he slowly cradles her face.

"I will kill myself and you if you ever do something like that to me again. Do you understand me Livvie?" He demands, weak.

"Ok." She stammers still reeling from the excitement of fear that curled her spine. What she had done was suicide. Her tears are deliberate as they creep down her face. She been hammered into pebbled rocks, swollen with jagged stones. If she picked herself back up she would fall again. She knows how the stars look when you think you're seeing them for the last time. The way they blend with the night so heavenly.

Their bodies untangle and Fitz lifts her from the ground dusting the dirt from her clothes. He swings her body into his arms as they make the silent trek back to his car.  
The jets lean cripple with the shadow of night glistening the figures. What was never spoken is that ghost do haunt those planes. The blinding screams of downward men seared in the flame of jet fluid. Their dreams planted in the grass. Their wives cries suffocating in the wings. No perhaps it is never well to make love in a makeshift graveyard.

/

Velma's Diner was bright with a yellowed light that made the place swarm with an affected atmosphere. Pale mint linen chandeliers swung from the ceiling like Christmas ornaments. The booths stuffed with cotton were periwinkle blue. Fitz loves this place. He's always raving about the lemon pound cake. She wasn't really in the mood for anything sweet. She had a taste for chili, something hearty to settle the hunger baiting her appetite.

A group of rowdy teenagers dine in a booth; the grimace of the waitress expresses her reluctance to express her distaste for their lack of decorum. They stare youthful eyes beating down the weary faces of Olivia and Fitz. She scratches her ankle with the toe of her shoe. She doesn't leave the shelter of Fitz arm.

They find a booth near the back, sitting snugly together on the comfortable seat. Cool and quiet the energy rumbles like a library.

"I love you." Fitz whispers to her at the edge of her eye.

"More than your camera."  
"More than my camera." He kisses her hair, before lifting the menus from the napkin canister. Lamented and sticky to the touch she eyes the dinner entrees. Nothing is remotely appealing, but the chicken noodles soup. She's in no mood for a beefy hamburger. She doesn't think her molars can handle the challenge. Her hands are still shaking jittery to the touch of the plastic covering on the table. Fitz takes those hands and cover them with his own.

The waitress comes. Her name is Daisy. She's all bubbly sass with purple streaks in her already cotton candy pink hair. There is nothing fancy in the way she takes their order. Fitz orders the clam chowder with root beer and a side of lemon pound cake. Olivia settles for the chicken noodle soup and vanilla coke. Daisy sweeps away with a restless smile on her face.

Coins are jingled into the antique jukebox that's centered at the front of the diner. The Red Hot Chili Peppers, Californication begins to play. The teenagers whoop in praise at the moody song.

"I like Nirvana better." Fitz says, scoffing. His fingers trailing over her wrist.

"Don't be an elitist. Remember you did buy Vanilla Ice cd." She smirks, affectively rolling her eyes.

"Really Livvie your going to hold that against me. I told you it was an accident, and I'll admit the songs weren't that bad." He looks at her, all innocent, blue eyes childishly bright.  
She taps his nose with the end of her index finger. "What are you, what is either one of us, but people starving?"

"You smell like sex." He blurts out rather quietly, nuzzling her hair with his nose

She laughs just a little not enough to make her body move in shudders. "My dad is going to be pissed that I'm coming home so late."  
"Don't go home come with me. We can run away, travel the country with nothing but the clothes on our backs."  
" Your idealism would be charming if I thought you were serious."  
"Maybe I am and your just afraid. "

She propped her head on her elbow and looked at him. "I don't know much about life. I barely know all the things I want to know about myself."

"People disappear all the time." He deadpans, leaning forward and kissing her so soft she's not sure he kissed her at all.

She doesn't say anything listens to the music coming from the jukebox. Her eyes wander out the window beside her. A rickety Cadillac is parked sideways, and Fitz Jeep pretension with a clean sheen. Everything desolate. Here is an escape she thought, shrinking into the leather of the booth, exhausted. Fairytales not raining on her doorstep, but the here and now blaring with uncertainty. She's tugging at the edge of cliff of unbelievable hallowing sacrifice, her hair spread all over her face, she's at the cusp of adulthood rearing it's finicky head. This is now, but will she jump.

She turn back to Fitz, a pained smile dotting her pouty lips. "When I graduate in May we go to Paris. You take as many pictures as you like. I will be your Josephine Baker."

His eyebrows bunch at the corner of his eyes. The smile on his face unshakable.

"My muse, my sweet, the only light in my world." His voice was gentle, inspired, a lovers voice on a rainy morning.  
"I hate when your corny." She teases poking his arm.

He grabbed her to him, wrapping all her whimsical femininity around him, burying his face in her neck. Kissing her cheek and lips. Olivia felt a scathing in her chest as she staggered to strain her exasperation.

"Susannah is never going to forgive us." She speaks her words muffled by the bridge of his clavicle.

He shrugs his shoulder. "She will get over it. This isn't the Breakfast Club her life will not be in ruins if she loses her best friend and brother.

"Well when you put like that it sounds a lot more tragic, besides John Hughes made teen angst look like the Great Depression." Olivia says.

"We are not having this conversation. You get all worked up and I will never hear the end of it."  
Olivia lets out an amusing disappointed sigh. "I'm just saying the basket case had to change herself in order for the jock to fall in love with her. Talk about cliché."

Olivia loved the Breakfast underneath all the high school clichés was teen angst at its most basic insecurities. She had found herself in the shadows of all the characters. She was the princess, the brain, the jock, the basket case and the criminal. Well she had never done anything criminal beside stealing a tube of Chanel lipstick from Macy's when she thirteen. The thrill couldn't cover her reaching panic.

"It's just a movie Livvie."Fitz reasoned running his fingers through his curls. A few strands pop up on top of his head.

'The Breakfast club is not just a movie it's a fucking experience." Her voice had taken on a childish shriek that embarrassed her, and made Fitz cough with giggles.

The waitress saunters over with their order. The steaming bowls of soup make her stomach roll over in hunger. Bubbly spritz of soda soaked in chilled ice. She takes her napkin throwing it over her lap and digs in. Her spoon clacking along the glass bowl.

Brandy's _I Wanna Be Down_ plays on and Olivia can't help but bob her head along, taking spoonfuls of the diced chicken and noodles into her mouth.

"Here try some." Olivia slid her bowl towards Fitz offering her spoon to hid waiting lips. "It's so yummy."

He takes the soup willingly in his mouth. Not even cautioning his tongue the blitz of heat from the broth.

"My mother's is better." He laps up the noodles in his mouth.

"My mother could make a mean bowl of cereal." Olivia joked.

"So am I going to have to look forward to burned disasters in the near future?" He cleared his throat watching her sneak a sip of his root beer.

"Eat your food Fitz and maybe I won't chop your dick off."

Fitz gleamed bright red as he tried not to choke on the food lodged in his mouth. Olivia batted her eyelashes as if she hadn't threatened him with fatal bodily harm. Her face blush pink with amusement. She plopped another spoonful of noodles in her mouth. A grin curving around her lips.

"I should put you over my knee, for that." He leans towards her. Kissing her lightly.

"I'm starting to think you have a fetish, mister. I'm not impressed. I refuse to put on a diaper, stuff a pacifier in my mouth and call you Daddy."

"Livvie!" Fitz nearly yelled. He was blushing this time wiping his mouth with a napkin. She gave him a quick wicked smile. She ignores his look of mocking disapproval. Instead she finishes her soup rather quickly washing it down with the vanilla coke. Fitz eats as if he has all the time allotted to him. Shoulder to shoulder her body leans against his, eyes shut in untainted pure contentment. And gingerly the bumping beats of their hearts rose to a breeze that synced in perfect pace simultaneously. She was used to breathing on her own, hurrying out rushed breaths, but cuddled underneath the strength of Fitz. She breathes in sync.

* * *

A/N: You should thank magicinhermadness for giving me advice on how to finally finish this story. She's the best!

So this was a wild ride. I'm not even sure what the hell I wrote. I hope it wasn't too sad for you guys.


	4. The Passion of Olivia Pope ( Part 2)

A/N: I was scared to post this, because I don't think it's my best work, but I guess you can be the judge of that. Reading it myself it feels rushed and abrupt, but that's such a shitty thing to say, because you guys may like it and I'll sound like a bratty pessimistic fan fic writer. Let me get out my feels.

* * *

(The Passion of Olivia Pope) part 2 of The Last Temptation of Fitzgerald Grant

_Her very first memory of her mother is fringed in fragments that she doesn't seem privy to recall, because with her mother there was always fear._

_Chocolate pancakes lay toppled on a sunflower detailed ceramic plate. Utensil clinked idly as her mother sashayed to a rhythmic drumbeat the peppered sausage sizzling in a frying pan she squeezed fresh oranges into a citrus liquid. The yellow polka dot curtain gathered in the wind and the sun played peek a boo in their window. _

_The morning was not filled with lazy would be lovers frolicking in boxers shorts and striking abs it was just her mother waving a spatula mimicking the latest dance steps or at least trying to. The room wafts a blend of aromas the melted chocolate chips and the touch of her mother's fruity perfume. _

_Olivia's tiny feet tapped along with her mother as she peered behind the hard wooden door. She couldn't determine if her mother had successfully lost her mind or if she was suddenly happy. She recites Minnie's home number in her head just in case she has to call her. Her Nanny that smelled like baby powder rubbed her back when she cried and slipped her butterscotch candies that sweetened her tongue. She remembers her grandmother's crisp words to her, "If you ever feel scared call me" She couldn't decide what she felt today._

_At four she learned to conquer her mother's mood swings she could recite the entire alphabet too. _

_The little girl was always settled with a heightened level of awareness. She presumed today would be wonderful. Her mother would not cry, she would not scream at her for running to fast in the hall or smash plates into painted walls. Today her mother would be happy. _

_As if sensing Olivia's presence her mother turned around animatedly with a bright smile tugging at her lips. She curls her finger in a come here motion and waits patiently for the bashful beauty to saunter towards her. _

_Olivia pulls her body from the door her white fuzzy bunny house slippers slap the floor as she timidly reaches her mother. She knows it's a sound her mother hates, but it's the only way she can be sure that she's in a pleasant mood. The music changes to a catchy song by a popular girls group Olivia's big round eyes peer down at the pancake batter splotched tile floor. She's careful not to step in it. _

_Her mother smiles, runs a gentle hand through her springy curls._

_Olivia studies her face for a brief moment her cheeks are colored with a peach tint and her lips are tinted a sparkled red. To Olivia's childish gaze her mother looks like beauty queen. She's just missing her crown. _

_She takes a strand of her mother's hair in her grasp, she watches as she closes her eyes and falls into the touch. The limp strand is twisted in her small index finger she lets it go and watches as it hangs near her mother's cheek. _

"_I made you all better Momma?" She questions innocently with a blazing gleam in her eye._

_Maya meets her eyes and a shaky nod is all she musters before taking the fragile child in her arms. _

/

Their eyes were watching God when the Sun peeked over the lazy darkness of a timid morning. The curtains swished with the callous breath of the wind. Sam Cooke was moody and simple on the buzzing radio. The ember flicked candles burned and left the smoky grasp scent of cinnamon.

It was not a farce the way their limbs tangled between the other. A lazy kind of happening that felt all the more natural. What was her body before it found his arms? Sure it's to admit defeat that the heart will always drip with the whisper of Fitz name, and for him he had been swindled the moment her brown eyes left him hiccupped in his speech. They had slept as lovers would; exhaustive with delicate tension, so sore were the tips of her breast, the curl of her fingers from pinching the bed sheets so tight, the heat of her tangy slit, bare. And she held onto him as if he was her last possession in the world.

She held on as his hands curved beneath her hips. All the shattered floating particles that lit down the pit of her seem to encumber in a solitary trail unraveling. She knew what the physical rush of passion felt like lightning her body, but love. Love felt so different, because that's what they made last night. _Love. _Love so pure that not even shadows of nightmares could mar it.

His mouth finds her, tender and gentle his tongue beckons her with a slick tremble, and she gives herself over to the panting wave that is his body. Olivia had never been kissed with such an intense sweetness. His lips the moon of every midnight she had to conquer. What would she do with her lips when he suckled them like toffee candies?

He had baptized her flesh with his tongue, her belly, button, her clit, her nipples all casualties to his reckless pursuit. She was blessed in a sanctuary that was Fitz. The sin pleasurable and her salvation had come in the tight coil of her stomach vibrating with the rocket of her climax. She felt God and this time he did not shun her.

This should terrify her, wreck open all the mopish gnarled pieces she had sliced to keep breathing. Keep breathing, that's what she told herself.

She had nothing to lose, but her heart, of course, and that had already been hanging by a thread. A thread that could be toppled by the wind. The shrink of breath. A sudden blink of an eye. To long she had mourned the loss of chips of her heart. She wanted them back.

The brush of his lips fluttered down her neck, with wet and soft kisses, she shivered down to her feet, kicking the sheets in her haste. Her breath stuck in her throat, she could scream, moan, but then dust would pour out her mouth. She almost cooed. He's inside of her again.

His teeth falling into her shoulder and she's well breathless.

"Slow, baby, slow." She whispered to the edge of his ear.

Life what was it, if not the need of splendid stars exploding in the vein of the heart. It did matter if they were all the wrong blend of toxicity, her needy abandonment and his selfish holy wrangle of aloofness.

She loved him with an aching fearlessness it had happen with only the shudder of his lips to her forehead. A forehead kiss.

Her arms lengthened, bending down the hunch of his back. She kissed his face; she kissed the bruises that had been cracked open with malice intent. They were her bruises now. Maybe it was foolish or childish, but she can't help it.

This man she had decided she would love. Not a sniggering fellow, with a country drawl caked in his voice, but a man.

Her back arched further on the bed, her mouth gaping open in a pleading utterance. Her spine snaking side to side, her bare ass slithering on the bed cloth.

"Sweet, sweet Olivia." He said gently. His eyes childish with a mellowed sorrow that he wore so perfectly it was irresponsible.

She took her hands to his face, and hoped they didn't fall off, because all her heart lived in her fingertips. She on the edge of tears, the drip of an orgasm.

The perfect rip and tug of her of lust, striking its fist into her swollen lips of desire. He found her mouth and strangled her with kisses that pricked with tenderness, such slippery licks of his tongue on her pouted lips.

And then she isn't stained against the bed sheet, but held in his arms Fitz flipped over to his front his erection spreading her cheek. A single gasp whispers out her mouth before their bodies are molded in a lover's prayer. He stroked her from behind his fingers cupping her breast, his teeth scraping her shoulder blades. It was too much and her precious aching sobs we're muffled in the cotton of the pillow. His mouth leaves her shoulders and licks the spine of her back; he could taste her, the perfect need.

Olivia doesn't expect the muttering cry that takes over her vocal chords.

The delicious rocking of their bodies, nearly breaks her in two, even and unhurried, she feels the ever herculean thread of her orgasm cusping at the peak of clit. He tightens the grip on her neck and before she can let out a second breath, the wind leaves her body and she topples over in jerking shivery light of bliss. The little death, had suffocated her.

/

The swish of lackadaisical waves sliced her body with every flash of her arm, the thrill of nothing but ocean trembling out an ethereal symphony was the totem of simple divinity. If only she could have the ocean in her grasp.

The steep chlorine gleam tasted her nostrils she preferred the pure sea salt. It was the natural brew of water. Her hair waded down in a fan of aimlessness, her skin marked by only the washing clinginess of water. She was naked and so was her lover.

Sprouting out of her floating trance she twisted her gaze around the isolated enclave. The tangerine beach chairs lazily idle not knowing the comfort of soaking wet flesh. It was all so banally plain from the stone glass marble edged around the windows, to the clear white edges surrounding the pool. This place did not boast to be a paradise, but if she closed her eyes and let her mind unravel thoughtlessly enough. She was in the Pacific Ocean.

The tip of Fitz toes taps her knees cap. She opens her eyes to a smile made of besotted softness. The bluest eyes she had ever seen, all with a touch of cruel sadness, she could kiss it away. He looks at her and she can tell that she's a puzzle to him. Almost finished, last piece is impossible to find.

Her hips invite him closer, the palms of his hands gripping the small of back.

His lips touched her forehead. Something broke inside of them.

She too then rose on her tiptoes and kissed those blonde eyebrows of his. They were so faint. Her lips moved to his curly eyelashes, and then she sprinkled light kisses down his cheek.

"Beautiful," she whispered, her voice a fallen feather.

She had never seen Fitz outside of the bubble from which she moved. She had seen his nervous anxious gait as he and his father shepherded the town with their bible thumbing brimstone. But him and her smiling in a moment of whatever it was that was them.

In the wrecked solitude of the hotel's pool. Fitz face opened with curiosity, she had never witnessed him this way before. His laughter perching in her ear, a bright cheerful sound that she could enchant herself in. Perhaps this is what shatters her the way his fingers curls between her hips, tightly as if a magnificent prayer had been tousled over and dimpled the sky, or a rousing sermon, shivering out the heaving hiccupped breath of a Southern Baptist preacher's lips. The things always carried weight.

There was hardness to him a place she could not touch. A thousands questions spiral, but nothing sprouted from her tongue. She is thinking about Zora Neale Hurston, Janie and Teacake. _Love makes you crawl outside yourself._ She needed to crawl outside herself.

"What was your first time like?" The blunt question escaped her unusually; her eyes froze over the crystal blue of water. She bites the inside of her cheek.

He stiffened slightly enough for her to want the question to have died on her tongue.

"You can't resist the fables of romances." He offered. What exactly did that mean?

Her eyes flutter to his and there is a quiet passivity marring his features. No remorse of angry.

"You really want to know. " He speaks up.

"I'm not afraid of what you will tell me." She said with a quiet nod.

He was fumbling for something to say. Twirling words around his mouth. There were many ugly truths to his life that lay mangled and untouched. His heart seemed to leap on its own and so did his lips.

"Can we get out of here first and I'll tell you everything."

/

The rust rumble of Fitz truck startles to a lurching pause as they align only careful inches from Olivia's home. The trip from the hotel had been seemingly silent, neither venturing to awake the other from their own proverbial mess of reason.

Their no children escaping the tidiness of home to play in the crinkle of leaves dog did not offend the air with their incessant barking. An eerie quiet brewed, it did not weep the usual Sunday afternoon chaos. But it was Sunday, the Lord's day and Fitz had committed a sin.

The engine pipes off and Fitz rolls down the windows, flipping off the radio. Olivia can't seem figure out anything to do with her fingers. She sprawls them at the hem of shorts, then fingers the lazy curls drooping beneath her shoulders.

Fitz wasn't any better his feet steadily tapping the gas, and his teeth kept tugging at his lip. He lay with demons that not even the bible could throw away. His eyes glance to Olivia and he recognizes the anxiety chewing its way through her gut. A menacing shark baiting the prey, so frail.

He shuts his eyes a little, dropping his head harshly onto steering wheel. She's the hurricane spiraling through his head every night, the dreams he has are all left with her debris.

"I'm ruined. He mumbles fiercely. He could be so terribly thoughtless in how he pinches his words. There was a bitterness there she had never heard.  
" Am I evil incarnate to you." She says it so soft he doesn't feel the sting.

He stammers as if his cheeks are filled with cotton. "Jesus Liv, your something rooted in my veins. It's not healthy the way I'm coming apart." Lifting his head from the steering wheel he turns his body to her and he almost flinches at the fire tempting in her eyes.

She lets out a rough sigh as if something had finally died inside of her. "You think I'm not drowning either under this see-saw of emotion. I'm bare Fitz, all my sins bleeding out before you. Should I get on my knees and worship at your saintly white throne."  
"Livvie." Her name is the only thing he can think to say to chastise her honesty. It still sounds like a prayer. The soft curls of his hair battle his forehead; he sweeps them away in frustration.  
"No Fitz," she nearly screams. "You and I are the same. The crown we wear is equally burdened. There are no scriptures to taint our hearts. If I am thorned and spoiled my love, then you bloodied and weak."

It never occurred to her she could be the burden. She was beautiful.

She stared at him all her hardness decaying with the twitch of his eye. She was used to cheap bed sheets and something like emptiness crawling inside of her and laying eggs. What was going on before her was an act of war.  
"This isn't Shakespeare Livvie." His heart doesn't play far. God he loves her.

"But baby this isn't Revelations either." Olivia said.

Bricks, that's what it feels like knocking in his stomach. This type of hurt has no medal. Breath is enough to not ever ponder it again.

He reaches for her hand his fingers rubbing over her wrist her eyes flutter shut.

"It's Sunday Livvie." He say plainly to scatter the silence.

She smiles just a little. "Are you going to run away from me?"

"Nah, I don't run that fast." He breathed.

She nods slowly. "What was she like Fitz the girl that hurt you?"

Only pain could rile up so deep that you hide in yourself afraid of love, afraid of a kiss.

He takes a breath and for moment he remembers the freckles of her nose. The galaxy that was divine on her face. "She was nothing but pain Livvie. I can breathe here with you, but with her I was always trying to catch my breath."

Olivia doesn't' say anything, but her heart does bleed out a little.  
Fitz shakes his head, rubbing his fingers through his hair wishing to rip apart the strands. He had such pretty hair, yet all he felt was some kind agony. You can't live swallowed whole.

His mouth opens and his voice is hoarse. "When I was sixteen every part of me was dead. I was the prodigal son, the heir to lead the holy rolling flock. Then she found me, her name was Lavender. I didn't know she was twenty five. It was her eyes that made me forget. They had the same kind of desperation. Desperation to be set free. Desperation to die. "  
"Fitz she hurt you." Olivia musters up the will to say.  
His voice does something brittle. Crack opens. "Maybe she did, but she touched me Liv and I didn't want her to stop. You ever felt so overwhelmed that anything feels good even sin."  
An enigmatic smile lights up her face, pointing to her chest "Your looking at the poster girl."  
They laugh at that. This pleading laughter that they needed.

She forces herself to look into his eyes, and his fingers so eager trace lightly down her cheek. She fumbles on her knees and shifts her body between his legs, he gathers her against his chest wrapping his arms around her. Her heart breaks so silently. It breaks to open again.

Her hand stroke along his hairy arm soothingly and he's rubbing his face in her hair, hoping to kiss every strand his lips touch.

Fitz shut his eyes tight and he isn't sure why he begins again, but maybe it's because he doesn't feel the blinding scathing shudder when he opens his mouth and let's his civil war float out his tongue.

"We had sex it wasn't anything special we didn't even take all our clothes off, but nobody had held me since my mother died. I cried like a baby in her arms and she didn't move away. It felt like love."  
Olivia shakes her head. "That wasn't love baby, that was some clinging fungus waiting to spread."  
"I know Liv. " It hooks him this deep well of insecurity, its claws thorned ready to strike, whipping him blindly.

Olivia asks, wincing before she even opens her mouth. "Did Big Gerry know?" She's sure the answer will make her want to chip away the pieces of herself to give to him.

His arms hug tighter around her middle and she kisses his chest. "Yes, he found us and he nearly killed me. He dragged Lavender by her hair out of the room and threw her inside his car, and he did the most bizarre thing ever. He kissed her, so hard that I swear her face turned blue. "

He stops such an agony to be denied your own heart. He remembers her fiery screams tugging down the hall, her kisses on his waist and then Big Gerry's towering glare; it could have not just been the betrayal of God's words, because his father's venom was righteous and vindictive. His fist cracking the cushion of his eyes, to simmer his own grief. His father was a monster and there was no greater ache for the consequence.

With every syllable fractured by the tremble of Fitz voice, he says. "I slept with my father's whore."

"Shakespeare." Olivia mutters, shaking her head.

He doesn't cry.

She reaches for the nape of his neck, such a pretty man. She kissed him slipped her tongue in his mouth to give him something that didn't taste of pain.

He breathless and weepy. "It's like this thing Livvie, your heroic because you survive this terrible thing, but maybe I don't want to be brave. I like being wounded sometimes it reminds me I'm not a monster."

"So are you admitting you're a sadist?" She jokes kindly.

"No it's just sometimes we don't see the beauty in the ugly."

"The world is full of ugly things Fitz. Ugly people, ugly situations and what are we but smudges of ugliness."

"Livvie I'm not going back home." He says it quickly before he changes his mind.

Olivia nods, smiling. "I know because you going to stay with me."

/

The truck lurched in the mud caked drive way. The tires eating the impossible dirt. A tiny speck of a house. Pale winter blue. Home tasted like blueberries crushing in her fingertips, the syrupy tart sticky on her cheeks. Minnie's lemon tinted tulips whirling petals parading like stars rooted in the soil.

The sunlight spreads it's constellation over rocky concrete, unusual for autumn. She longs for a chill, but it only rasp in the strands of her hair. The wind so fickle.

She and Fitz crawl outside the car, there are words sitting on their tongues, but to afraid to leap off.

Blowing air out of her mouth, they reach the doorstep. Giddy kisses on the lips has Olivia giggling like a mischievous school girl, she twists the key in the door, but before she can open it , it wrenches open and she's met by the solemn glares of Minnie and Eloise.

Minnie voice floated softly into a tirade. "I could give you a moment to explain, but then that would mean I have the patience for your excuses." She chastises with no hint of humor.

Olivia almost smiles, blushed even a little.

"Minnie I can explain." Olivia speaks up feeling kindly sheepish in her clothes.

They weren't angry. Minnie and Eloise did not possess angry. It was a useless emotion to them both. Only because it lacked control. The two women had been lovers of a certain kind and the disgruntled but fragile misadventure of their adopted daughter Olivia left them befuddled, but slightly amused at her behavior. She was a young woman coming undone in the most scornful way. There was no bridge simply mass water she would have to sink into to find something that wasn't shriveled or torn apart.

Olivia kissed both of their cheeks taking Fitz's hand with her and dragged him inside the house. He had been to Olivia's house more than he could count her bedroom a kind of refuge that he wasn't afraid to admit. They don't go to her bedroom instead they found themselves inside the kitchen. There is a kettle of tea on the stove and a half eaten apple pie centered on the table.

Minnie and Eloise emerge with forced smiles both of them taking a seat at the table, decorated with a mint green table cloth.

Olivia stands before them all, Fitz Minnie and Eloise her tense but acknowledging audience.

She's not fearful of their judgment they never judge or at least they tried not to. And then there was Fitz, her man, so precious and tragic all at once.

She clears her throats, her fingers clasp before her. "Minnie and Eloise before either of you say anything. I'm deeply sorry. I could have called you guys, but Fitz needed me. Don't you dare give him the evil eye Eloise."

Fitz blushes. Eloise rolls her eyes, but a smile perks on her lips. She has the penchant of moodiness.

Olivia legs grow unsteady; she's not finish and what she may say will possibly cause a fire.

"Fitz is going to stay with us." She blurts out rather bluntly. It's better to simply let the words tumble then to let them sit idly.

A funny quiet, a deadly quiet. It pricks the air. It was as if they were a picture trapped in time. The audacity she channeled to ask her mother's such a thing, but they could never turn anyone away. Their hearts didn't bend that callously. If Olivia loved him it was enough, just maybe. And it was such that the entire puzzle had been conscribed, Fitz smile weary with a toxic patience, the sounds of Eloise weighted breathing and the curious stare on Minnie's face.

She watches as Minnie tilts her head giving Eloise a thoughtful look. A silent thread occurs between them a thing she's so envious of. That kind of love that is faultless.

Minnie turns to Fitz and says. " Whatever is troubling you lay it at the feet of yourself, don't give our Olivia the heart of your burden."

Olivia and Fitz swallowed hard. It was a mercy they both had been given. Fitz sat frozen in the wicker of the chair, sweat beading on his forehead.

Eloise chuckled to herself; the laughter was a good sign. "Olivia Carolyn Pope you have a lot of nerve, but you're feisty . The gentleman can stay, but there will be no hanky panky, fornicating, funny business, salacious innuendo at the dinner table and definitely no grandchildren." She finishes the litany with an exaggerated huff.

Olivia covering her blushing face with hands say, "Eloise I believe you have embarrassed me enough!"

Fitz cleared his throat, chuckling. "Thank you Ms. Eloise and Ms Minnie, I'm rather humble."  
"Olivia is our treasure we would do anything for her, and yes even letting her charmingly handsome boy toy slumber in our house." Minnie pipes in.

Olivia turned to Fitz giving him a shy kiss on his cheek. She was eloquently bashful by her mother's gasping stares, but a miracle had been born.

/

Denise Huxatable sways into the prestige brown stone with yellows overalls and a floral printed blouse adorning her body. It is the look of a fashionable outsider and Olivia can't help but be envious. The static television somehow manages to steer clear of any grainy turbulence on a Sunday. That familiar pang swells when Claire Huxatble shares an affectionate embrace with Denise. Her eyes don't mist because she can't count the tears she has cried for her mother. Too many or may be not enough.

She feels Fitz knuckles shimmying down her neck, tracing the sensitive flesh of her clavicle. Further her body leans into the crook of his shoulder, reckless to the presence of Minnie and Eloise.

"Olivia dear what's going in that head of yours." Minnie's speaks her voice a wave of tenderness. She could swim in it.

Lifting her head she shrugs her shoulder, staring thoughtfully at the television. "Is Claire Huxatable a dream or am I simply romanticizing a fictional character?" She grimaces and looks to Fitz and his face is a pained curiosity. Them both something like parentless children. Orphans.

"Remember when you first read The Bluest Eye and you cried for a week." Eloise offers.

"Oh sweet, Pecola Breedlove she just wanted blue eyes." Olivia says her heart scraping around her chest.

These peculiar often strange women with their robust laughter, they spoke about books as if the pages never ended.

Olivia shakes her head. "I was thinking about my mother." She admits honestly. "I was thinking about Seethe from Beloved. How could she do such a thing Minnie?" The paralyzing fiction had left her crumbling. The Cosby episode had been the double whammy.

Minnie's folds her arms before her. "Most folk's aint never had to die to live. Seethe saw something that was never ending. Shackles that bled flesh just to keep a person bonded. She knew that even if life turned into some kind of miracle her babies would never taste slavery. That's love of a desperate brutal kind."

Olivia's shoulders shrivel up and down and for a moment she thinks she may cry, but Fitz kisses her cheek clutching her hand in his.

Her voice is barely a whisper when she speaks. "My mother was desperate, but there wasn't a tragedy welcoming itself on her doorstep."

Eloise jerked her body towards Olivia brimming with apprehension. "Your Mama didn't do no evil thing. Every woman aint made to be a mother."

Olivia hiccups, but it sounds like a sob and maybe it is. "She was mine and then she took herself away." She had known sadness and it didn't make her brittle. It made her fragile like tissue to water.  
"Naw, Naw, sweet Olivia she owned herself first. She marched right on this doorstep with her sorrow pinching her spine. Can't nobody live hunched over." said Minnie, crossing her legs and pursing her lips.

"That woman loved you, but she loved herself more. You can't raise a child selfish. She gave us a bundle of joy that we could love selfishly."

For a moment Olivia is suddenly angry. Fitz face is full questions, but he has nothing to say, because his demon is floating somewhere along a pulpit.

Her lower lip quivers, her bones breaking like the Titanic ripped by the heavy stream of the Atlantic.

"I can't forgive her." She says this like chalk has melted down her throat. Her eyes dwindled to her lap, her hands restless.

It's not about her mother, Fitz or even Minnie and Eloise. It has always been herself she was searching for, underneath the marrow of her bones, she lifting up limb after limb to save her.

"You don't have to because she will never forgive herself either." Minnie whispers back.

"Tomorrow is here and you still jump roping with yesterday. Touch a cloud and pray that your heart feels the same way." Eloise always the dreamer, she could curl her lips a righteous, majestic triumphant bottle of words. She never meant to hurt, soothing was her magical potion.

The time passes and they sit in this kind of muddled silence that isn't easy to break. It's comforting and the television is a welcoming distraction.

Olivia cries into her hands and Fitz holds her, because she saved his life.

/

Aretha Franklin's _Angel _is soaring out the speaker, lifting her soprano into an orbit of titan gospel melody. Their hearts are tired and the neat nearly pretentious curtain of organization that is the Olivia's room becomes their sanctuary.

Olivia's hips twirling in a swaying bounce; Fitz could not temper the languid pull of her body. They were alone in the darkness drunkenly dancing to the scorching, but breathtaking song. It could be a dream, but then why is she breathing and not drowning. It was what lover's did when the sweaty chaos of clubs wasn't their pursuit , but in the tremble of midnight all the rule bend and hip become heart, and lips lung.

"You hear that Fitz." Olivia nearly whispers in Fitz chest.

"The music, Liv?" He uttered trying to keep his feet from stepping on her toes. He's never been a dancer. Dancing was the movement of the devil.

"Yes, that too, but her voice Fitz. Mister evangelical I'm disappointed, this woman's vocal chords are anointed and you are completely oblivious. " She smiling her lips something between mischief and mock outrage.

"Who's being a Jesus freak, now?" Fitz smirks, smug and intentional.

Olivia throws her head back laughter sprawling out her mouth.

It was beautiful and miserable .How strange this visceral ache all this bitterness, flinching pain, licking sorrow, and there is bliss. Bliss bouncing in their bodies at the core of whatever is left of their souls.

His fingers tip toeing down the curve of her back, she shivers as if she's made of stain.

"I'm in love with you." She rasps her mouth suddenly agape. The words were painless.

Fitz whisper almost in a song "Sweet, sweet, Olivia. I loved you a long time ago."

* * *

Authors Note: So I know no one asked for this part two, but I felt compelled to do so, so much was left unhinged in the previous one-shot. I don't really think this part two made it any better, but when the muse summons you, it's your nightmare.

I tend to like to leave these one-shots open ending, because life is that way and sometimes the happy ending is predictable. I easily could have done an epilogue with tulips, blueberry jam, and smushy babies, but I'm a glutton for angst, which probably explains my unhealthy attachment to these fictional characters.

I admit I took some creative and character license, but who gives a fuck.

About Scandal lately I've been distancing myself from any discourse I think it's best for me to sort out my own lens and interpretation. The film student inside of me wants to call the show hot garbage.

I'm still invested in the characters, clearly, because I write fanfiction.

Also, I'm super excited about the one-shot I'm semi taking notes on now. It will be loosely based off Kerry's film Night Catches Us, well technically the similarity w ill be that Olivia is a former Black Panther.

Enjoy I hope this was worth reading even if it wasn't what you expected.


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